Archive for Loss


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on December 7, 2016 by becciseaborne



Standing in sun-dusted fields of lavender

Soul scorched by umbilical tears

Wind-thrown hair whipping primal salt

To bring the wounds again


Heart beats convict’s rhythm

Locking you within me

Spectre’s twin of my own self

Tangle-twisting our entities


Absorbing a wonder I long to witness

From by your side

I glimpse a shadow of us walking together

In the distant hinterland


Transcendent beauty perpetually provokes

This bittersweet ghost

Your eyes rooting me to this Earth

And everything beyond


So far from home, yet there she is still

Unwanted heart tracing your beat

Emotion’s futile friction

Drags scalding heat through my veins


Gratitude for finding you wages war

With bitterness for losing you

In these ripe fields with eternal tears

And transformative light

Losing a Ghost

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on October 22, 2016 by becciseaborne


Nothing has changed…

Still I wake coldly alone

Visit friends on my own

Sign cards from me only


Nothing has changed…

Still I cook for one

Share my space with no other

Discuss my bad day with thin air


Nothing has changed…

So why has everything changed?

Why is everything empty?

My phone newly redundant?


Why is my day so thin?

My world so bare?

My life so diminished?

The man who wasn’t there…


Image: Vanishing Point by United Visual Artists



Tend to Me?

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on July 14, 2016 by becciseaborne
I spent today
Pulling out all the weeds
And dead things from my garden
It looks terribly bare
I’ve left it untended for too long
I’m uncertain how to fill
These hungry spaces
Perhaps the tiny, struggling
Remains of previous endeavours
Will grow again
I haven’t the heart
For putting in the work, though…
New beauty please
But tidy?

The Choice

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on July 6, 2016 by becciseaborne


I’ve had a falling out with my heart
She brought me to a dangerous yet beautiful place
I came willingly, open-eyed
But now I need to return, I find she won’t allow it
We are stuck here
So my choice is to stay with her, and the pain
Or to leave without her
She is wayward and wild, my heart
Stubborn and cruel to me
Yet she is wise and true
I’ve always trusted her
Wherever she takes me
She’s taken me to joy, pain and grief
To beauty,darkness and love
Never to peace, though
She has never taken me to peace
Perhaps it is time for peace
Perhaps we should part ways now
My heart
And me

Strange Skies

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on July 4, 2016 by becciseaborne

Stormy Skies by Marcus Sam

Things get lost
Picked up
Put down

Warm Streets
Cold homes
Strange skies

People get lost
Yet changed

Warm Streets
Cold homes
Strange skies

Hearts get lost

Warm skies
Cold streets
Strange homes


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on October 3, 2015 by becciseaborne


Lost Love


I am filling up

With all the conversations

We need to have


Unspoken words

Issue from my eyes

Every day


Each sunset

A new and infinite



Heart smashing

On shores of another

Impotent moment


for_my_lost_love_by_celtica-harmony_deviantartFor my Lost Love by Celtica-Harmony on

Finding the End

Posted in Fiction with tags , , , on March 7, 2015 by becciseaborne

> • <

Amanda Bauer

> • <

This is only the second piece of fiction I’ve written since leaving school over twenty years ago. It’s a work in progress, which I hope could become a short story, or a chapter in something longer perhaps. In the meantime, I thought it could use an airing in its present form.

> • <

As she shifts, pulling her feet up onto the windowsill and half turning her face away, he is suddenly ambivalent in his desire for her. He wants to feel her, and the sex they used to share, but there’s something about the dignity of her refusal that causes him to pause.

The world on the other side of the window is black as eternity; they’d walked back from the wake barely able to see each other, drunkenly bumping along unknown lanes one step at a time. The kiss, not long before they’d left the pub, had been familiar, yet raw and unkind. A predictable end to a day of emotional tension, crashing through veins carrying regret and unarticulated fears. Despite this, neither wishes it hadn’t happened. He left her only a couple of months earlier, but they both still care about each other and remain friends. Why else would she travel all this way with him to come to the funeral?

The only place nearby for them to stay is with friends of his family. There is a twin room with single beds at angles from each other. The room is small though, and the day has been large. They got in to, or at least on to, their separate beds, but they were both restless.

> • <

She looks back at him again now, a brief glance, without turning her head toward him, and he needs her all over again; he knows she feels the same. He tells her so, and as he starts to speak her hands begin to move, finding distraction in small objects.

“Of course I do,” she says with fierce quietness, imagining their voices carrying through thin walls, “but I want it to be because you love me. And you don’t.” Her eyes widen as she tilts her head back slightly and she pushes the nail of her middle finger deep into the flesh of her thumb. “How would that be any good? Why would I do that?”

She still loves him, he knows that. He didn’t plan this, but once they’d got back to the room, after that storm of a day had whipped up and set down again all the grief and memories and stories… And after all the drink, and the kiss, and then the dark, lonely intimacy of the walk back. Coming into that small, dimly lit room, it seemed inevitable that they’d end up in bed together. Their sex had always been good, and he still finds her attractive, still cares about her. He just doesn’t want to be with her any more. The truth is he’s in love with someone else. She doesn’t know this was why he left, but fate led him down a cul-de-sac anyway, so here he now is, letting her internal battle turn him on and push aside his feelings  of guilt. Trying to win the battle.

He’s always been persuasive when it comes to words and women and sex; he feels there’s still a chance, so now he’s reminding her how it used to be. She looks away to the window, finally unable to keep the tears from their freedom. She stares into nothing, hoping to will them into abating. He’s still talking. She doesn’t need reminding; she knows keenly the pleasure they gave each other, recalls the first orgasm he gave her, how sometimes just thinking of his touch, would arouse her. Fresh tears fall, and she fights a sob by contracting her stomach so hard she has to stop breathing. She closes her eyes slowly, opens them again, half turning. Repeats once more, patiently, barely audible with emotion, that it would be no good. Would do no good. Her hands hold her shins now in a bid for stillness, but they find no rest, and grip tensely. They agree once more that they both want to, but again she counters him as she searches the endless darkness outside. And again, and again. Until the darkness grows a pale edge, a soft blur finding its end after all.

> • <

Eventually they both wear out. The drink and the emotion have created concentric circles of their voices. He realises she can’t be won, and suddenly something shifts as the blur outside the window finds definition. His mind is hazy but he recalls something about her that he’s always been drawn to. He remembers that in the midst of their first, radiating attraction for each other, she wouldn’t even kiss him until she’d finished with her current partner. He’d mangled her heart, moved away without a thought for her, left her in a small-town spotlight  for everyone else to watch flail as their relationship decayed. Yet still she’d insisted. Do the right thing.

And now here she is again, taking some sort of stand. As if she needs it; is trying to tell herself something.

It’s late and they both know there will be no sex now, but they feel raw still and in need of each other, or something, at least. So they pass out together in one of the single beds, pressed into each other’s heat like children trying to forget a painful memory.

> • <

In the morning, head whirring a little, he brings tea. As he hands one to her, she smiles, “Thank you.”

 > • <


First drafted 6th December 2014




Posted in Poetry with tags on February 4, 2015 by becciseaborne

Cold edge

     hard shape
          no space
               not here
                    shut down
                         freeze out
                              push through
                                   press on
                                        long way
                                             stop there
                                                  go now
                                                       cry then
                                                            be gone